My home is infested with religious figures...

"Ah, go on, have some more wine!"
 Smiling, I shook my head and turned towards the bearded man lying on my sofa. His hand resting gently on a dog, his feet on a turtle, he looked every bit the part of an old-testament Dr. Dolittle. But he was not Dolittle, he was Noah, and he was beginning to outstay his welcome.
 "Not even a little? It's good," He continued, "I made it myself, you know..."
 "Yes." I nodded, "But I remember what happened the last time you got drunk old fellow. I disapprove of my house-guests providing anything that can be used to rationalise slavery. Besides, you've got to keep a clear head - you promised you'd get that Ark off of my lawn tomorrow. My parents are coming, remember?
 And they bloody hate boats."
There was no response, but after a moment, I detected the faint noise of gentle snoring. Sighing, I turned off the lights and headed for bed. My parents weren't coming tomorrow, but I didn't feel bad about lying. After all, God wasn't flooding the earth again either, so Noah was acting under false pretenses as well. To be honest, I think he's just lonely these days, and I understand that. But you can't just force your way into some-one's house, call them evil, fill it with animals, and turn the tool-shed into a surprisingly large boat. No sir.
 Still, it must be difficult being an antediluvian Patriarch.

Prison is an illusion of the mind.

I looked at the dingo. He looked back at me. We were looking at each other.
His eyes stayed focused on mine, and mine stayed focused on his. The pane of glass obscured his features a little, but I could still see him clearly.
"Why did you do it?" I asked
He shrugged.
"Why?" I asked again. "I mean, I knew it was in your nature. But the president's baby? You should have known you'd never reach him, let alone manage to eat him."
Looking at the phone clutched in his dingo hands, he replied:
"It is in my nature, nes pa?" he replied. His thick French accent masked the faint hint of his native Australian.
"I have read of the subject mon ami. The bibliotheque of this prison is most well-stocked."
He leaned back in his seat, lighting up a cigarette as he did so. He continued
"You humans, you have created your superior being- God. And he, you say, has created me as I appear before you. So it is. But the blame is not mine.
I will not live more than six years, in all likelihood. This prison will not confine my mind."
I looked at him, thinking. Then, I continued:
"Dingoes can't read, let alone talk." I said.
"You're right, friend. This is the situation most ridiculous."
I left the prison, and vowed never to return. Animals that sound like Poirot scare me a little.

Balloon Animals

My attempts to master the art of creating balloon animals has failed, I'm afraid. I tied a string to the dog all right, but he refuses to fly.